


tally

by debilitas



Series: clearing out drafts [7]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Abrupt Ending, Choking, Dirty Talk, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Strap-Ons, Trans Male Character, Trans Mirage | Elliott Witt, Trans Octane | Octavio Silva, Trans character topping trans character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators, but very light and brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27621797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: Anyone that’s ever heard of Octane probably assumes what he’d be like in bed. Turning that hyperactivity and overstimulation on someone else, always demanding more.No assumptions will ever compare to the real thing, Elliott decides. Taking a ride on theOctrainis an experience unlike any other, overwhelmed with sensations that make him forget how to think.
Relationships: Mirage | Elliott Witt/Octane | Octavio Silva
Series: clearing out drafts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988098
Kudos: 27





	tally

**Author's Note:**

> another unfinished thing found buried in the docs, so another abrupt ending. And I made a nsfw twt for my fic and bs @AIRSTR1KE 😔

_“Smile for the camera, pretty boy.”_

Elliott thinks he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter, considering the vice grip on his hair. Typically jittery fingers are tangled in his curls, forcing his head back so that his throat is exposed. 

Through heavy lids he watches his reflection in the front camera of Octavio’s phone. Cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson, sweat creeping down his brow, and thoroughly-chewed lips open as gasps for air. He looks utterly wrecked like this, somewhere between exhausted and exhilarated and—

_Good._ Elliott never knew his face could turn this shade of red, or that his pupils could be blown so wide, swallowing their irises. He’d fuck himself like this. Who wouldn’t?

Satisfied with what he sees, his lips twitch into a pleased smile. He watches Octavio flash an unbearably smug look, offering a peace sign before snapping a picture. Elliott won’t put posting it past him; the thrill of sharing what the face of the Games did in his free time.

He doesn’t have much time to worry about it. Octavio drops his phone onto the mattress, grips Elliott’s strong shoulders and resumes thrusting into him. It’s a sudden change of pace, hips pistoning and head of the silicone cock drilling into the perfect spot each time.

Anyone that’s ever heard of Octane probably assumes what he’d be like in bed. Turning that hyperactivity and overstimulation on someone else, always demanding more. 

No assumptions will ever compare to the real thing, Elliott decides. Taking a ride on the _Octrain_ is an experience unlike any other, overwhelmed with sensations that make him forget how to think. 

Stitching thoughts together is borderline impossible while being fucked at lightning speed, or with his cock sheathed in tight heat. Being told to go faster, _faster_ until Octavio became frustrated, pushed him to his back and rode him mercilessly.

Arms no longer able to support his own weight, Elliott collapses further onto his bed. Chest flush against beloved bedsheets, hands clutching at any excess fabric they can find. Octavio doesn’t relent. Instead, he leans in close, breath hot in his ear as he reaches a brutal pace. 

Feeling his orgasm form at the base of his spine, Elliott tries to will it away. Focus on something else, suck it back into his body, anything to avoid the embarrassment of coming virtually untouched. Octavio would never let him live that down—

A hand finds his dick, soaking wet around the silicone and clit engorged. Those relentless digits stroke him at a speed that’d be more pain than pleasure if he were any less turned on. 

Elliott will never admit how quickly he comes, or whose name he chokes out as he does. Molten heat spreads through his body, weighing down every limb until every movement is sluggish. Octavio pulls out too soon and Elliott grunts in response, eyes closed until he feels the familiar felt tip on his hand.

_**|||** _

Elliott frowns at it: Octavio’s in the lead again. 

Their little competition started hours prior, after one of them — he truly can’t remember who — bet they could make the other come more times. One hand, mouth, then dick later, and he starts to worry he might lose. 

Not exhausted yet, but he feels it lurking. 

“‘Nother win for me,” Octavio says, sounding just as confident as he does in the ring. “No shame in giving up now.”

There are sounds of the harness being loosened, dropping to the floor with no ceremony. Elliott draws from strength he didn’t know he had, pushing himself into an upright position. With a steady hand he grips Octavio’s scarred face.

“You are _so_ annoying.”

There’s no venom in it, and Elliott feels himself smiling with the last syllable. Octavio mirrors his expression before pierced lips move into an O shape, Elliott’s other hand slotting between his legs.

He’s slick with arousal, loosened from his previous climax. There’s no resistance when Elliott presses one, then two fingers inside, thumbing the swollen clit rougher than he would with anyone else.

“That all you got?” Octavio snarks, despite the hitch in his breath. His tolerance for any sensation is unfairly high, long since dulled by Stim. Nothing is quite ever enough for him, even that one night when they included Elliott’s decoys.

Elliott huffs, moving the hand on the other man’s face. Presses fingers just below his jaw, feeling the muscles in the throat move in a difficult swallow. Octavio makes a noise of approval, thrusting toward his hand and exposing more of his neck.

Never fully satisfied, Octavio cups a breast, tugging at a dusky nipple while Elliott squeezes tighter. Not to hurt or bruise — though Octavio would probably let him — just enough to restrict each inhale.

“ _Faster_ ,” Octavio insists, voice hoarse from the strain on his throat. Swipes a split tongue over his upper lip, brown eyes wide with exhilaration.

Elliott lets out a frustrated grunt, and pushes the smaller man flat onto his back. Holds the bottom of his thighs, fingers layering over the old burns, pushing them toward his chest.

Octavio’s always been flexible. He spreads his legs wide, leaving plenty of room for Elliott to position himself between them. He blindly reaches around the mattress, over discarded clothes and phones before finding the device.

It whirs to life— on the highest setting, of course. He presses the blunt end of the vibrator against the erect clit, watching Octavio’s entire body tremble in response. Elliott readjusts himself quickly, moving to grind down against the device as well and bites back a moan.

The muscles of his inner thighs twitch, and he feels warmth spread through his lower body. Wills himself to _focus_ , determined to win their little contest. Rolls his hips to increase the friction against Octavio, making his lithe body rock with each movement. 

It’s a steady and intense ride; one that Octavio’s all too happy to be on. He laughs breathlessly, alternating between rubbing at his chest and digging fingernails into his shaved head. Says things that Elliott doesn’t understand, but they sound absolutely filthy. 

He should learn Spanish, he thinks, trying to postpone his own orgasm. Does anything he can to ignore the heat pooling in his gut, focusing on erratic thrusts and movements that’ll leave his wrist aching tomorrow.

It’s going perfectly, and Octavio sounds increasingly close to release. Then Elliott has to open his dumb mouth.

He planned on saying _yeah, you like that_ , in a smug, confident tone. Then he’d move the vibe in just the right way, make Octavio come so hard he wouldn’t know up from down, then add a third tally to his hand. It’s what Mirage would do.

But Octavio’s not having sex with Mirage. Elliott gets two words in, then starts to stutter over the first letter of _like_. The syllables scramble on his tongue, only worsening as his embarrassment increases.

He stops, feels the hot shame spread across his face like a wildfire. This is it, he decides. He’s ruined the entire night because he can’t get out a four letter word. He pulls himself away, already crafting an excuse to leave.

Octavio sits up, leans in until they’re breathing the same air. Licks his upper lip, giving another glimpse of his split tongue.

“Yeah,” he replies, like nothing’s changed. Presses the heels of his palms against Elliott’s shoulders, and pushes him onto his back. “I like it.”

Then Octavio straddles him, holding the vibe between them with a shaky hand. Elliott’s mind goes blank. There’s no room for any anxiety or insecurity, only a flood of _yes yes yes_ and heat. 

Something’s shifted in their dynamic. There are still tally marks on Elliott’s hand, but it doesn’t feel so much like a competition anymore. He feels accepted and wanted and _so_ good.

When they’re like this, he has no clue why he ever tries being on top. He loses himself in it, melts into the mattress underneath him and the man above. Lets his eyelids drift close, until he feels the sting of Octavio’s hand on his cheek.

“Look at me,” Octavio says, voice hoarse. Elliott obeys. The other man offers an absolutely wicked grin, giving a flash of that crooked canine tooth. 

Octavio really does have a runner’s body. Thin, with lithe muscle all over, but strong thighs. He shaves regularly — something about staying aerodynamic — only leaving behind a short patch of dark hair on his lower abdomen. 

That ridiculous outfit he wears for the Games has left him with atrocious tan lines, chest and thighs drastically lighter than the rest of his body. There are freckles everywhere, but they concentrate on his chest. Just below the collarbone, he has entire constellations spread across the skin. 

Every muscle tenses when he comes, fingers squeezing the device so tightly Elliott vaguely worries it’ll break. Throws his head back, revealing the freckled column of his throat, and makes shameless sounds of enjoyment.

Elliott keeps his hips in a bruising grip, watching, stunned, while Octavio grinds down against him. Slowly decelerates until he’s his own version of still.


End file.
